Rowan dreamed of finding the seven Unity Koro and ruling all of Althoria. But first, he had to get his hands on that honey bun. Right now, destiny could wait. The last pastry at the Harvest Festival was calling, and Rowan wasn’t about to miss out. He tore down the hill, the wind chasing him like a jealous rival, while the wheat fields thundered in golden applause. From the top of the hill to the valley below, the town of Zyranth bloomed with color and sound. Ribbons in every shade fluttered from the rooftops. Painted banners swayed across the cobblestone

When Rowan was four, the world seemed endless and full of magic. Golden fields stretched far beyond the village. The cottages, with mossy roofs and sturdy beams, stood close together like little mountains guarding their people. And above it all, the sky was endless and blue, a dreamy canvas that felt big enough to hold every wish Rowan could imagine. That evening, the wind carried a secret. It whispered across the hilltop as if trying to speak in a language only the heart could hear. Rowan stood barefoot in the tall grass, the blades brushing against his knees as the

Rowan hit the ground hard. His knees buckled, and he rolled to his side. His breathing came in sharp bursts, each one shaky and uneven. The heavy and strange silence rang in his ears. Slowly, he pushed himself up, his hand quivering as he raised it into the soft light, unsure of what he might find. Rowan glanced around the crater, but the Windkoro had vanished. He went to dust off his sleeve, but stopped short when he caught the glow in his palm. There, beneath his skin, a faint swirl of light shimmered softly, like a star trying not

The sun hadn’t actually peeked over the horizon. Still, Rowan was already wide awake, his heart pounding like a festival drum. Today was the day he was finally leaving Zyranth! Unfortunately, his blanket didn’t seem to agree with him. “Gah, let go!” Rowan wriggled and wrestled until he tumbled straight off the bed with a solid thud. “Totally meant to do that,” he grumbled, rubbing the bump on his head. His hair stuck out in every direction, looking as if a lightning bolt had zapped him in his sleep. The floor around him was a battlefield of crumpled shirts, scattered

The creatures shrieked in surprise, their glowing eyes snapping toward Rowan all at once. With a burst of sparks, the firebats shot into the stormy air, screeching as they circled overhead. Mud clung to Rowan’s boots, each step heavy and slippery. He slipped once, arms flailing, then caught himself and slid down the hill like a runaway cart. The rain fell heavily, blurring the world, but Rowan kept his eyes fixed on the boy tied up below. His heart fluttered like a trapped bird inside his ribs. He threw his arm out, shouting, “Wind, GO!” A tiny puff drifted from

The heavy wooden door groaned as it creaked open, its rusty hinges whining like a tired flute. The sound wandered into the dark beyond, echoing through the silence. Rowan peeked inside first, his fingers clutching the doorframe. Bjorn leaned over Rowan’s shoulder. “You sure this is the place?” Rowan swallowed hard. “Yep. Definitely the place. Well… probably. I think.” Bjorn arched an eyebrow. “That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.” Rowan lowered his hood. “We came to find answers. Only one way to get ’em.” Bjorn crossed his arms. “Then you go first. You’re the one with the wind power.”

Rowan and Bjorn followed Sorin into a round dining room nestled within mossy stone walls. Ivy-wrapped scrolls lined the shelves that curved above them like quiet guardians. In the center, a broad wooden table rested beneath a glass skylight glowing with twilight. A wave of scent rolled over them: herbs crackling in oil, mushrooms roasted dark and rich, onions sweetening the air, and golden potatoes carrying a buttery warmth. Rowan’s stomach growled the moment he sat down. Bjorn didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a slice of bread and tore into it, crumbs spraying across the table. “Hey!” Rowan chuckled, reaching for

Bjorn charged down the trail, his boots thudding hard against the dirt. “Come on!” he shouted over his shoulder. Rowan sprinted after him, lungs burning as the forest blurred past. Morning light scattered through the branches in flashes of gold and green. The path narrowed into twists and dips, forcing them into a single file. Then came another shout. “Was that… a monster?” Rowan called, his voice ragged. Bjorn didn’t answer. He only ran harder, as if chasing the sound. The path dipped suddenly, and the trees gave way to a wide clearing. There, three tall figures circled a more

The woods opened into a marsh that shimmered. Rowan’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Come on! Willowfen has to be close.” Nestled deep in the swamp, Willowfen looked like a secret village the world had hidden away. Wooden cottages rose on stilts above the shallow waters, their dark marshwood mirrored in the still pools below. Rope bridges stretched between them in tangled paths. Rowan stepped onto a patch of moss that looked solid until it gave way beneath him with a wet squish. “Careful,” Bjorn said, grinning as Rowan flailed. “That stuff’s trickier than it looks.” “Yeah, thanks for the warning,”

Rowan and Bjorn pressed deeper into the strange forest, each step carrying them farther from anything familiar.  “This doesn’t feel like the same forest anymore,” Rowan whispered. “It’s like… a dream that forgot how to wake up.” Bjorn didn’t answer. His hand hovered near the handle of his axe, scanning the shadows between the trunks. Then, something quick and dark slid between the trees as if it belonged to the forest. Rowan stood motionless, except for his hands, which had a slight shake. “Did you see that?”  Bjorn squinted into the hazy fog, but didn’t see anything. Unsure of what

The cottage door creaked shut behind them, and inside, every corner brimmed with curious treasures: shelves lined with glass bottles that shimmered green, gold, and blue; bundles of feathers tied in careful cords; and heavy old books stacked high like sleeping beasts. A kettle hissed softly on the fireplace, filling the room with steam, but no one bothered to move it. The man stepped forward, his gray cloak trailing across the wooden floor. He stood with his back slightly bent, but he carried himself with quiet strength. The fire flickered, illuminating the lines of his face, showing a jagged scar

A single lantern dangled from a crooked post beside the cottage, squeaking each time the breeze stirred. One of its glass panes chipped, but the wick inside had been waiting for someone to wake it. Bjorn reached up and unhooked the lantern. A sticky cobweb stretched across the handle, clinging stubbornly until he brushed it away with the back of his hand. “Let’s see if you’re still alive,” he muttered. He crouched beside a flat stone and set the lantern down. From his pocket, he pulled out a piece of flint and pressed it against the back of his axe.

Bjorn’s shoulders tensed as his grip tightened around the handle of his axe. He knew that crooked grin, the floppy feathered hat, and that slouched stance. “The Banditleaf Trio,” Bjorn muttered, planting his boots firmly in the damp earth. “Guess I didn’t hit you hard enough last time.” The leader, Snatch, strutted forward, his floppy, feathered hat bobbing with every step. A chipped sword swung lazily from his belt, dangling backward as though it hardly mattered. From his boot trailed a green vine, snagging in the grass like a pet tugging at its leash. “Yes!” Snatch cried, flinging his arm

The cottage greeted Bjorn with the gentle scent of drying herbs and a faint curl of smoke from the fireplace. Sunlight streamed through a small window that pooled across a narrow cot against the far wall. Rowan lay curled beneath a thin blanket. His chest rose and fell in steady breaths, while his hands rested loosely at his sides. Along his arm, the mark from the Hazbin radiated beneath his skin.  Across the room, Thorne was already working on a brew. Without looking up, he stretched out a hand toward the doorway. Bjorn slipped the satchel from his shoulder and

Rowan tugged his pack straps tight and leapt over the last root. The forest ended so suddenly that it felt like someone had sliced it away with a giant blade. One step he was in the forest, the next he was blinking under an enormous sky that stretched wider than he thought the world could be. Golden hills rolled into forever, tall grasses swaying like waves on an ocean. As the breeze shifted, the slopes shimmered with honey-gold, then a silvery green, as if the land couldn’t decide what color to be. Bjorn walked a few paces ahead, his boots

Rowan saw a small figure running through the crowd, with a torn cloak fluttering behind them. The hood stayed low, hiding their face, but Rowan caught a flash of something small and shiny in their hand. Rowan shot to his feet. “Hey! Stop!” But the thief rushed ahead, bumping into someone before running off at full speed. “Bjorn!” Rowan shouted as he instantly chased after the figure; his voice cut through the music. “Someone stole the compass!” He shouted over his shoulder. “What?!” Bjorn called back, but Rowan was already weaving into the crowd. He ran through the maze of

They had been walking for hours when the air seemed to change. Rowan couldn’t explain what he felt. It wasn’t a noise or a chill; it was like the wind leaned in close, pressing softly against his chest and encouraging him forward. Something unseen was guiding them across the hills of Ardentia. Rowan flipped open his compass. The needle spun in a lazy circle, then snapped with a click. “Still west,” he said, shading his eyes against the sun. “Hasn’t changed since Whistlebend Crossing.” Bjorn walked beside him, his axe bouncing on his back with every step. His boots crunched

Rowan lifted his hand and shouted, “What are you waiting for? Let’s go!” Then, before Rowan knew what was happening, Lucas blurred into a flash so bright he couldn’t see, but Rowan squinted just in time to see a jagged bolt coming toward him. Rowan jumped and tumbled across the ground, rolling through grass and dirt. The bolt of lightning hissed past his cheek.  I didn’t even see him move. Another flash! This time from the left. Lucas streaked across the stone circle, sparks trailing from his boots as a whip of lightning cracked outward. Rowan pushed his hand forward,

Lucas was falling, and Rowan didn’t stop to think. His boots pounded across the breaking bridge, each step kicking loose stones and clouds of dust. The wind surged at his back, like a friend who knew exactly what he needed. With one final push, he dove headfirst off the crumbling bridge. Air roared past him as he plunged closer to the river below. Rowan’s hand shot out, reaching for Lucas. Their fingers slipped past each other again and again. The river rushed closer with every miss. Then, at last, Rowan’s grip locked tight around Lucas’s wrist. “I’ve got you!” Rowan

Rowan stood at the edge of the lake, his boots sinking into the squishy ground. Beside him, Bjorn crouched, pressing his hand into the mud as if daring it to argue back. Every step they took left behind noisy squelches; the shoreline seemed excited to swallow them whole. “No bridge. No ferry.” Bjorn looked over at Rowan. “We don’t have a way across, unless you finally mastered that whole ‘running across water with wind magic’ trick.” Rowan laughed, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “Oh, sure. Just give me a couple more lifetimes of practice.” Out in the haze, a

The jolt snapped the oar from Crumble’s hands. It spun once, slapped the water, and sank into the foggy dark with a soft bloop! Everyone froze. “D-did we hit a log?” Snatch squeaked, his voice wobbling higher than usual. The next blow came harder, slamming the boat sideways. Crumble’s cookie tumbled out of his hand and plopped into the lake. He stared at the widening ripples. “Nope,” he whispered. Thorncoat shrieked about cursed fog, Snatch nearly dropped his sword, and Bjorn crouched at the bow, holding his axe tightly. The boat rocked hard enough to slosh water over the sides.

They stepped into the village square. The cobblestones, polished smooth by countless footsteps, gleamed faintly in the fading light. A wooden toy lay on its side near the well, one wheel hanging by a splinter. A faded scarf clung to a broken fencepost, its threads dancing in the breeze. On a windowsill, a chipped teacup brimmed with rainwater. Rowan blinked. He swore he caught the scent of tea steeping. Then they noticed him. Beneath the bell tower, on a bench soft with moss, a cloaked figure sat as still as stone. His robe was deep gray and frayed at the

From the edge of Hollowmere, Rowan glanced back one last time. The mossy bench where Elarion had been sitting was already fading into the mist. Fog uncoiled, slinking across the ground until the whole village disappeared. The forest path curled ahead of them, roots punching up through the soil like knobby fists. Vines dangled low, swinging lazily even though the air was perfectly still. Everything felt heavy. No birds or buzzing insects. Just the sound of their footsteps. Rowan pulled the straps of his pack and glanced nervously from side to side, half expecting to see a Hazbin pop out

Bjorn’s axe sliced through a bat, scattering it into a storm of sparks that tumbled over the tower’s edge. Another shrieked from behind. Bjorn spun, slamming the butt of his axe into its head. The creature burst backward, spiraling off the platform, its trail of fire streaking like a falling star. “There are too many of them,” Bjorn shouted.  Rowan clenched his fists as he stepped to the platform’s edge and raised his arm. A firebat shrieked and dove for him. Rowan flinched, thrusting his hand forward. But nothing happened. Its claws flashed— WHSSHH! Bjorn’s axe cut past, striking the

Rowan gripped the wooden ladder as though it would buck him at any second. The whole thing shook in the breeze as he carefully inched his way down, toward the treetops swaying beneath him. Bjorn, of course, had no patience for slow descents. He skipped the last few rungs entirely and launched himself into the air. Whump! He landed in a springy bed of moss. “See? That was easy!” he shouted up to Rowan, who could barely hear him. Rowan rolled his eyes but kept climbing.  Step. Breathe. Step. Don’t look down. He kept thinking to himself. Rowan’s boots touched

For a long moment, Rowan and Bjorn stood in the hush that followed. Above them, leaves swayed with a gentle shhh, and sunlight spilled in broken beams, sliding across the path like golden spotlights on a stage. “So…” Rowan began, kicking at a pebble. Bjorn smirked, already guessing. “We’re definitely still going.” Rowan laughed. “Thought you’d say that.” The trail unraveled into a mess of roots and shattered stone. Jagged rocks jutted up like crooked teeth, half-smothered in moss. They shoved through a curtain of ferns, and the forest suddenly opened.  A colossal stone wall loomed across the clearing, scarred

Bjorn’s boots scraped against the stone as he lunged forward. The Hazbin’s bony hand lunged toward Rowan, but with a fierce shout, Bjorn slammed into Rowan, knocking him to the side. The Hazbin’s strike missed by inches, as the two boys tumbled in a tangle of arms and legs, rolling across the cracked tiles until they skidded to a stop. CRACK!  The sound split the ruin like thunder. The shimmer burst apart in a spray of jagged light, scattering across the chamber like shards of glass. Then, just like that, it was gone. The pale, bony hand. The Shimmer. Even

A woman burst into the square, clutching a child tight against her chest. Her voice was full of panic. “Run! Get out of here! If the Burlok returns, nothing will save you!” Rowan’s stomach dropped. “That’s impossible! The Burlok’s just an old tale to keep kids from wandering off.” The woman’s eyes were wide with fear. She shook her head fiercely. “Not anymore.” Her gaze darted past Rowan. Whatever she saw drained the color from her face. “They’re here.” Without another word, she spun and vanished down a narrow alley, her child clinging to her like a shadow. Rowan and

The phoenix leapt from Bjorn’s shoulder, wings flashing like shards of ice in the stormlight. It opened its beak, and a strange light spun in its throat, sparkling like starlit frost. With a rush, the glow spiraled upward in a stream of icy wind, glittering as it climbed. Then, SNAP! The stream tightened into a beam. A blazing comet of frozen brilliance erupted from the phoenix’s mouth and slammed into the Burlok’s chest. Frost exploded across its rocky hide, cracking scales like shattered pottery. Veins of ice crawled down its wings and shoulders, spreading fast as it shrieked. Rowan’s jaw

Snowflakes drifted lazily through the air by the time Rowan and Bjorn left Stormreach Village behind. The wide cobblestone streets had shrunk into a single winding trail, and the laughter of the villagers faded until it felt like the world had gone quiet. The higher they climbed, the stronger the wind became. Rowan pulled his hood tighter, his boots crunching over the frosty stones. He glanced back just once. The village roofs lay far below, smudged gray by distance and snow, like a cluster of sleeping animals curled in the valley. For a moment, it felt like stepping into another

“First question. Tell me the name of the one who first wore the Crown of Unity.” Rowan’s eyes widened. “Wait… the first King?” He glanced at Bjorn, who gave a helpless shrug. This wasn’t just a history question. It was ancient lore. Rowan’s thoughts spun fast. The King ruled for a thousand years, but his name was never written down on purpose. Rowan stepped forward. His voice was steady now. “His name was never passed down. He chose to erase it so that no one could claim the Crown for themselves.” For a moment, there was silence. Then the guardian’s

The snow was deeper than Rowan expected. Every step sank with a soft crunch as Rowan and Bjorn followed the narrow trail winding up the side of the Stormreach Peaks. The air had changed since the last ridge, and was cold enough to sting Rowan’s cheeks.  “The mountain seems to go on forever,” Rowan asked, tilting his head toward the endless sweep of sky.  Bjorn glanced over his shoulder with a grin. “In Mossmere, we call mountains like this skybiters. Looks like they’re chomping on the clouds.” Rowan laughed, the sound bouncing faintly against the cliffs. “Skybiters actually fits.” Above,

The trail had narrowed into a jagged ridge clinging to the mountainside like the spine of some vast, sleeping beast. One wrong step would send them tumbling into the clouds below. Rowan observed the path. His breath puffed in the frozen air. His legs burned, and the tips of his fingers were numb inside his gloves. Still, he pressed forward, one careful step at a time. Bjorn led the way, steady as stone, his axe strapped across his back. His heavy boots struck the ice with absolute certainty, even as the wind tore at his cloak. Rowan found strength in

Rowan froze mid-step. The hairs on his arms rose under his cloak.  BOOOOM!  The sound tore through the clouds, shaking the mountain. Snow exploded across the summit in a whirling blast as a massive shadow dropped from the heavens. The ridge trembled, cracking under the impact, and Rowan stumbled, catching himself on a jagged rock as a storm of white powder burst outward. The Burlok stood at the center of the summit, steam hissing off its hide where snow dared touch. Larger than any creature Rowan had ever imagined, it stretched its wings with a creak like straining metal. Veins

Rowan stepped into the meadow, the tall grass brushing his knees. His eyes widened. “Whoa… this place is amazing,” he said, brushing his fingers over a cluster of petals. “It feels like a dream.” Bjorn flopped into the grass with a sigh. “My legs might never forgive me.” Rowan chuckled and joined him. The ground was soft, the grass cool and springy beneath his hands. A butterfly perched on his boot before flying away.  Rowan tilted his face to the sun, letting its warmth sink in. He glanced at the Stormreach Peaks, which towered behind them now. For the first